


what's left when children go to war

by Odaigahara



Series: Soulmate September 2020 Plus [3]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Burns, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Needs a Hug, Forced Bonding, Knight Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, M/M, Mental Coercion, Self-Sacrifice, not as dark as it sounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26607427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odaigahara/pseuds/Odaigahara
Summary: Day 4: Trail of Color*The answer should have been clear: his king preferred the sorcerer alive, obviously, since then he could be interrogated for information on the rebels. The royal torturers could dredge all they could out of his brain before he died- and then hewoulddie, bound in nullifying chains and all alone, and it would be a mercy.That was his king’s wish, so it was Roman’s as well. He should have been content with that, should have been a loyal soldier, oathbound as he’d been since childhood- should already have put his captive in chains to take himback-But he couldn’t stop thinking about how the torturers might crush his glasses, or bash in that scholarly face, or break all of those ink-stained fingers.He couldn’t stop seeing the blue splashed across the clearing.
Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders
Series: Soulmate September 2020 Plus [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1932382
Comments: 21
Kudos: 115





	what's left when children go to war

**Author's Note:**

> TW's at end of chapter.
> 
> Thanks to Parallelmonsoon and GoldenMeme for beta-ing!

The sorcerer wasn’t dead. Roman wished he could decide how he felt about that.

The answer should have been clear: his king preferred the sorcerer alive, obviously, since then he could be interrogated for information on the rebels. The royal torturers could dredge all they could out of his brain before he died- and then he _would_ die, bound in nullifying chains and all alone, and it would be a mercy.

That was his king’s wish, so it was Roman’s as well. He should have been content with that, should have been a loyal soldier, oathbound as he’d been since childhood- should already have put his captive in chains to take him back-

But he couldn’t stop thinking about how the torturers might break his glasses, or bash in that scholarly face, or break all of those ink-stained fingers. 

He couldn’t stop seeing the blue splashed across the clearing.

He’d kept their trails separate. The sorcerer- his _soulmate_ , though his oath constricted his throat at the blasphemous thought- had never seen him coming. Roman had only ever been allowed to use his magic on hunts, had only ever mastered stealth, and it seemed even another mage couldn’t see through it, chaotic and borderline-useless as it was.

Funny how that didn’t make him feel any better.

Roman knelt beside the sorcerer’s prone form and considered slitting his throat right there, more to torment himself than because he could do it. His oath-marks tightened further, runes digging into his wrists and neck and starting to burn. 

His king didn’t want the mage dead. He couldn’t kill the mage.

 _Gods_ , it was so hard to think. 

It was always hard to think past following orders, but even now, far from his liege lord or any commander, he could barely string two thoughts together without losing track of what connected them. He’d always been so fucking stupid.

The forest was silent around them, as if in judgment. Roman’s mind recalled what he’d been told, before the hunt: _bind him first, leave no opportunity for escape._ He pulled the chains from his saddlebag, murmuring a reassurance to the horse he’d mentally named Annarietta the Third, and fixed them around the sorcerer’s wrists, locking them with the spell-key tattooed on his wrist. The sorcerer twitched and whined at the touch of them, even unconscious, and Roman flinched.

“It has to happen,” he said, and tried to remind himself he was a knight and didn’t have to explain himself to rebel magic users. “You’ve gone against the crown. Don’t- you can’t tell me you had no idea of the consequences.”

The sorcerer couldn’t tell him anything, mostly by virtue of being unconscious. Roman swallowed hard, trying not to stare at how vulnerable he looked, how even knocked out his face evened into intent contemplation. His fingertips left blue smudges on the mossy ground.

They were far into the virgin forest, trees clustered together like legionnaires and sodden with magic. A sorcerer could become invisible here. If Roman didn’t find him, no one would, and he could return to his friends or family, whoever might be missing him.

If Roman disobeyed orders, though, his oath would kill him.

He wasn’t sure that mattered, now that he could think of it more clearly. He’d been deployed on all sorts of quests before- killing beasts was his favorite, since it was thrilling and actually helped people- and the majority were just as bad as this. 

Take this witch from her home and deliver her to the castle, ignoring the cries of her children. 

Interrogate this child on the whereabouts of her parents (and gods, had Roman been relieved that the oath let him charm the child instead, let him sing so he didn’t have to make a young girl scream in pain). 

Kill or capture this rebel faction or that warring guild, drag this old man out of hiding, press these boys into service of the Crown-

Roman should have disobeyed sooner. That the only thing that shook his mind loose was finding his true love was- unforgivable, really. He deserved every second of the death he was about to earn.

The sorcerer was still lying there, the ground beneath him awash in blue. Roman forced his magic into the spell-key and let the chains fall from his soulmate’s slender wrists.

He was shaking. He might have been crying. He was guiltily glad that he’d never learned his soulmate’s name.

Roman fled before the oath started to burn.

*

The killing of traitors was a slow process. Roman had seen it once, lined up with the other squires as a failed knight writhed and screamed for mercy. The oath-marks were branded black into the skin, used to bind knight and liege lord forever, and their breaking never left the deserter alive.

They burned to death from the inside out, every one of them. Sometimes in his nightmares Roman still heard the screams.

He left Annarietta the Third for the sorcerer, hoping he wouldn’t kill her, and stumbled as far off-path as he could manage, past roots as thick around as his neck and glimmering little mushrooms, flowers he’d never seen outside of apothecaries and broad-fronded ferns.

It was beautiful. He so rarely had the chance to focus on things outside of quests and battle, and now he was surrounded on all sides by the best inspiration anyone could ask for. He hoped his soulmate appreciated the majesty of it, at least. That seemed like something a sorcerer might do.

Roman collapsed against a boulder as the embers of the brands at his neck and wrists sputtered up into a feverish brightness. His skin was reddening, body soaking with sweat; he pulled off his armor, already dreading what was to come, and threw it down with more hatred than was perhaps necessary. He left his sword more reluctantly, then went to lay by the boulder, panting to offset the heat.

It felt like being baked in the sun, left out in shackles for hours as the others trained and focused and didn’t bother their instructors with questions about pointless things. It felt like being branded for the first time, him and his brother and a hundred other boys all standing in a line, trying their best not to fidget. Like the first time he’d tried to disobey, when Re- his brother had disappeared and he’d wanted to go after him.

If he hurried, he could go back and capture the sorcerer again, and the spell might let up. It would let his liege lord know that he’d tried to go against his wishes, sure, but Roman wouldn’t die. Not until he got back.

Hell, if his king was feeling generous, he might not be executed even then. His king might just call him a disappointment, instead, leave him to the torturers himself for a few days, and perhaps he’d hear his soulmate screaming, or would see the blue trail where he’d been dragged down the hall to another chamber, and perhaps his soulmate would see his trail and know that he was there but it was too late, that there was no happy ending, not for _them-_

But soulmates were a magic thing, and the only ones who could see their true loves’ trails had to be either for the Crown or against it. There would never have been hope, not for them. Especially not if the sorcerer had gotten the chance to look at Roman and see the coward he was fated to love.

Roman’s skin felt as though it was aflame. He choked back a shout and writhed, tried to sit upright and couldn’t get his arms to work. His neck was ablaze, the magical brands on his wrists tight and scalding; it was like an amputation in slow motion, a cauterization never complete. His vision was white and spotty. He couldn’t stop panting.

What would his soulmate think, once he awakened? Perhaps that some other rebel had come up and released him, or that it was a trap and he should be on his guard- would he follow Roman’s trail, if he saw it? Could he be convinced to kill him more quickly?

Roman lost track of time. He stared up at the canopy, heaving and finding each inhale more and more difficult to take. The heat seared his lungs. It parched his skin red, dried his tongue and eyes, made it even harder to think than usual. He curled in on himself, biting at his hands to try to distract himself from the pain, and the hotness of his skin burned his tongue. He thought his eyes themselves must have been blazing.

He didn’t have the breath to scream, but as the flames increased to a roar he made his best effort anyway, rasping and squirming, wishing he could cry. The oath wouldn’t let him lose consciousness. He had to feel every moment, every damned second and gods gods _gods please just let it stop, let him die he was sorry okay so_ fucking _sorry-_

A ragged mewl escaped his throat, and he lashed out against the boulder, a weak little impact that did nothing to jar the heat loose. Any moment now he’d burst into flames, and then it would be over more quickly. Any moment and the agony would triple, become truly unbearable, and gods, Roman was such a coward, what made him think he _deserved_ to cry-

Cool hands on his neck, pressing sharp fingers against the brand. Roman whined and tried to buck away, to press towards them- the pressure _hurt_ , but the temperature was so perfectly cold- and whoever it was snapped something, tendrils of brighter blue wafting through the air.

The touch left him. Roman gasped out a plea, wordless, and tried to curl towards the coolness- he didn’t want to die like this, it _hurt_ , please- and the person snarled, voice suddenly much clearer, “What is it? What are these spells?”

“’S an oath,” Roman forced out, because it wasn’t like the binding could kill him _more_ , and the person growled, making a sharp motion with his hands. The agony didn’t let go, forcing words through his parched and burning throat. “Please, it hurts, just kill me, I don’t want to _die like this-"_

“I’m not going to kill you,” the stranger said, and Roman would have answered but the heat _exploded_ and there was-

He was _screaming-_

An explosion of blue dazzled his eyes, cutting through him in a cooling wave, erasing the fire and leaving ice in its place. Roman gasped out a sob, curling in on himself, amazed to find himself whole, and the person- the sorcerer, he realized as his sight came back, disheveled and sparking cerulean with power- swore.

The trails of his magic were all over the clearing. Roman laid on his back and breathed, trying to force his body calm like after a bad spar, and determinedly didn’t think of how his true love was sitting just a few feet away. How his true love was going to kill him, or take him back for interrogation, or leave him to be captured and executed by his own comrades-in-arms.

“My thanks,” he managed, staring up at the canopy; it really was a beautiful sight, such lush greens and gentle light. “That would have been a painful way to go.”

The sorcerer came closer, and Roman forced himself to sit up, shuddering at the dizziness that resulted. His sight took far too long to clear, and when it did he saw his former quarry watching him, face closed-off and forbidding. “You captured me,” he said, not a question. “And then released me. Was your condition a result of those actions?”

“Just so,” Roman said, and felt a needling burn when he swallowed. He was trembling. “If you found me so easily, I’m- well, I’m sure you can guess why I released you.”

“It would have killed you,” the sorcerer said, glaring. Roman managed to glare back. That was hardly the part of the whole venture that should have driven this magician to anger. If he’d wanted to avoid the hassle of dealing with royal spellwork, he could have let Roman die in the first place. “Is the same true for any other soldier who bears these marks?”

“I am a _knight_ , thank you, not some common soldier,” Roman snapped, because he’d earned that rank, damn it. “And yes, obviously. They’re oath-marks, you can’t go around breaking them willy-nilly.”

“Do you choose to take them?” the sorcerer pressed.

Roman stared. “What kind of question is that?” he demanded, bracing for a blow for his tone. “Of course you don’t _choose_ to take them. They’re a requirement. I can’t imagine what kind of army the king would have without them.”

“You mean to say,” the sorcerer started, face going dark, “that your _entire army_ is magically enslaved?”

Roman couldn’t let himself think about that. “It’s just an oath,” he said, defeated. “It’s not- it doesn’t matter what it does. As long as you follow orders, it hardly hurts at all. It’s not as if we wouldn’t have to follow them anyway.”

“Yet you disobeyed because we’re soulmates,” the sorcerer said, and Roman flinched. “Were you aware that this would occur?”

“Yes, actually, I was, since I’m not an idiot,” Roman spat. “We all know, there are-” _Demonstrations_ , he almost said, but choked it back. That was another cursed chest he wasn’t opening, not if he was about to die. “You know what, I’m not sure why I’m telling you this,” he said, and frowned. “Or how, considering that it’s certainly privileged information and I’ve never been allowed to mention it before-”

“There are _what?”_ the sorcerer demanded, something unnameable drifting across his face. _“Tell me.”_

Roman choked and blurted, “Demonstrations! If someone’s bad enough they give contradictory orders, the knight has to choose one, they burn and it’s horrible and they make us _watch-”_ The pressure eased, and Roman put a hand to his throat, feeling the slight bumps of the magical brand on his skin. Looked at his wrists.

The patterns were blue. 

“I was unable to break the binding under the limited time constraints,” the sorcerer- his _liege lord,_ it had transferred like nothing, from an unjust king to Roman’s soulmate- clipped out, looking away. “As a result, in order to prevent your death, I had to offer the bindings a closer anchor.”

“I see,” Roman said, voice breaking. He thought he could blame it on the dehydration, though, so that was all right.

He should have been- he didn’t know how he should have been. Angry, that his loyalties had been bought and sold so easily, worth no more than a few minutes’ sustained effort? Frightened, that he was in another’s power? Sorrowful, that he’d never see his king’s great empire again and would undoubtedly be pressed into service against him, or interrogated until they had no more use for him?

Roman didn’t feel any of those things. Mostly his chest was numb, and he was tired and sick and dizzy, and he’d just found his soulmate and was bound to his service and neither of them was dead. That was- so much better than he’d expected. And this was his true love, someone he’d have followed to the edge of the earth in any other circumstance, so why should this be any different?

Roman had always been a romantic, like what vague memories he had of his mother before him. It was another thing that had always gotten him punished, back in training. 

Attachments weren’t supposed to _matter_. And yet-

“My name is Roman,” he managed, trying for a smile. The sorcerer stared at him. “Sir Roman, in all technicality, but I’m rather certain you can drop that, now.” His soulmate’s eyes were deep blue, more like an evening sky than sapphire. His next words came easier. “May I- know your name? My lord?”

His soulmate flinched. “Logan,” he snapped. “ _Please_ desist- that is to say, there is no need to refer to me by any title. This is not a permanent arrangement. It was merely the only alternative to your burning to death.”

“Right,” Roman said, because it made sense: he’d been an enemy, he’d nearly captured his own soulmate, he’d already betrayed an oath, and how did his soulmate- did _Logan_ , he thought, and the name was cold fireworks in his mind- even know he was any use? “Of course, but- for now, I mean-” The hope bloomed. “I can call you Logan?”

“Please do,” Logan said, and held out a hand. Roman blinked at it, wondering if he was meant to kneel- he hadn’t, wasn’t sure he could manage it without keeling over, but it was rather rude not to- or kiss it or what, and Logan said, annoyed, “I am offering to help you stand.”

Roman took his hand and stumbled to his feet, legs shaky but holding his weight. Logan faltered when he saw where their palms met, pulling his hand back against his side. “I like your color,” Roman dared to say, light and perhaps more giddy than he should have sounded. “It’s reminiscent of a night sky, really, or perhaps some of the wildflowers I’ve seen in the mountains.”

Logan adjusted his glasses, still refusing to meet Roman’s eyes. “While it may be reminiscent of those things, it is unrelated to them. The color is the mind’s way of conceptualizing a perception that isn’t actually related to our optic nerves, and thus technically unreal. My magic is no more blue than yours is red.”

“My magic is _red?”_ Roman blurted, and before he could master himself asked, “What shade is it? Dark as blood? Bright like a summer rose? More of an orange-red, because while I’m not certain those count I suppose they could be considered as such if you call them red-orange, more of a sunset color at that point- ah, sorry.” Suddenly it was hard to breathe. “I didn’t- of course you don’t have to answer that, my- Logan.”

“The pursuit of knowledge is rarely a bad thing,” Logan said, “and for your reference, your magic is a bright scarlet. Though it’s... curious that you don’t already know that. You would have had to use magic to avoid detection while you were hunting me.”

Roman cringed. “That’s, ah, stealth magic. Not the usual fare, from what I’ve heard, and I’m always doing it wrong, really- I understand if you’re angry about all that.”

“Why would I be upset about an unusual form of stealth magic?” Logan asked blankly, and when Roman didn’t answer, made a sound and dug in his pack before handing him a flask. “If you wouldn’t mind, please drink this. It contains water and electrolytes.”

Not technically an order, but it wasn’t as if Roman was about to refuse his _soulmate_ anything. Especially not if that anything was water. He accepted the flask and took a swig, then spluttered, rapidly choked it all down, and shrilled, “What was _that?”_

“Water, vinegar, lemon, and salt, mostly,” Logan said, looking at him like he was a particularly slow recruit. “I did say it contained electrolytes.”

“Why would I know what electrolytes are?” Roman demanded, but cut himself off when Logan came closer, already regretting the outburst. He was so impulsive, why couldn’t he ever just shut up-

“I suppose you wouldn’t, if the Githerenes really do treat their soldiers so inhumanely,” Logan said, taking back the empty flask. “Are you capable of walking?”

“Yes,” Roman said automatically, and found to his surprise that it was nearly true. “I’m hardly even dizzy.”

“That is adequate, I suppose,” Logan said. “We will have to leave your horse here. There’s a tracking charm attached to its hide that would take some time to remove, and I would rather not risk pursuit. Do you have any objections?”

Roman shook his head. “She’s trained to leave if she’s alone and unbound for too long. Something of a failsafe, for if a knight dies.” He had to stop for a moment, swaying; Logan waited. “Where- if I might ask, that is- where are we going?”

“To my previous destination,” Logan said. “The border of the Githerene and Kodora Empires, which I believe you call the Slumbering Mountains. There should be resources there that will allow me to break the binding.”

Roman felt a swell of heartbreak, swiftly quelled by his own realization that- “That’s at least a week’s journey on horseback!”

“Yes,” Logan said, glare returned, “but unfortunately there is no closer option. I will endeavor not to impose upon you during the trip. Has your dizziness passed?”

“I believe so,” Roman said, and Logan gave a sharp nod.

“Good. In that case, we should be going. Please inform me if you tire. I am capable of carrying more than you can through use of enchanted items, so for now I think it best that you not bear any extra weight.”

“I can carry as much as you need me to,” Roman argued, and Logan gave him an unimpressed look. He fell quiet, something cold and clawing in his chest.

Logan turned the next second, giving Roman another glimpse of the blue trails he left across everything, splashes of indigo that glowed where they landed, and the cold morphed into hot resolve.

Logan wanted to sever the binding now, sure, but that was because he didn’t know Roman yet- because he didn’t see how useful and loyal he could be, how much he might serve. Perhaps he wasn’t convinced that they were really soulmates, either, or that Roman was a soulmate worth having- but that could change. Fate had willed their meeting, after all, and Roman was bound to his service now.

All he had to do was prove his worth, and he might earn a sort of happy ending after all.

**Author's Note:**

> TW: forced bonding (both to an offscreen villain and to logan, though the second is for a good cause), burning, mentions of harm to children, mentions of torture, mentions of burning to death


End file.
